


Half-Light Crusader

by idgafwututhink (faetlrae)



Category: Revolution (TV), Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faetlrae/pseuds/idgafwututhink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious organized group abducts her little brother, Danny, Charlotte Macer must embark on a journey to rescue her brother but first find Miles Matheson, her only lead bringing her to Forks, Washington, where she meets Charlie Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Macer Parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hithelleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/gifts).



> Special thanks to Hithelleth for beta-ing!
> 
> This all started from a plot bunny that wouldn't stop hopping and has grown into an undertaking I'm pleased to get accomplished. I'll be updating as often as I can, and I'll be updating the tags as new characters get revealed so that you don't necessarily know who all is involved.
> 
> This will be a Marlie fic and center around Miles and Charlie, as well as some Revo characters, although the two are not related in this verse, which is set in the Twilight realm of things--although I am very much messing with the structure of that universe, too. Note that Twilight characters are really in the background. They'll mostly be flat/stock characters.
> 
> Intended for Revolution fans.

Twenty-year-old Charlotte Macer did not know who the men were that took her brother, Danny, or why they took him. She was aware only of the directive her father, Ben, left her before they killed him: to go to Forks, Washington, in order to find Miles Matheson, for he was the only one who could help her get her brother back. But the journey from Chicago took her long enough, and she felt desperately like she was losing out to time. So, when she approached the Reservation in La Push, looking for the local wolf pack, she was ready to give details to just about anyone who may be able to help.

It was only her deeply ingrained paranoia that made her bite her tongue in silence until it bled. After all, who among a crowd of strangers—shapeshifters or no—could be trusted?

She had never even been outside Illinois before four days ago, when she first began hitchhiking her way to the Olympic Peninsula along the west coast of the continent. By her side stood no one, and in her dreams she relived that day her brother was ripped from her hands. Although she tossed and turned, hurting for Danny, she was just as plagued by the questions: Who were these people? How had they bested her? Why did they take Danny? What had her dad seemed to know? How was this Miles guy her only hope?

And all the while, five letters tattooed in green on the forearms of the men in black combat gear were just as permanently inscribed in her memory: INCOG.

She swallowed her thoughts as she stood overlooking the Reservation. Her long, wavy blonde hair was being strewn about by the wind, a brown jacket and pair of blue jeans keeping her safe from the chilling winds that sometimes invaded Washington in early September. A little way from the treeline where she stood was a shifter only a few years younger than she with black, spiky hair, and he wore a smile as he walked alongside a young tween girl with reddish hair. Charlotte listened from where she stood, her hearing heightened since her own transformation five years earlier.

"...bloodsuckers!"

"Mom says your insults get old."

"Oh, and Bella is right about everything, huh? Nessie, you'll learn soon enough that no one's perfect."

"Even Mom?"

"Especially her."

"What about Grandpa?"

"He may be Chief of Police in Forks and can drink anyone under the table, but he doesn't know half of what goes on in _this_ world."

"Why not, Jacob?"

"We've been over this." Jacob sighed, unable to smother completely his smile despite his best efforts. "He can't know some things. It's too dangerous. All that matters is he knows you're special and loves you for who you are."

Charlotte, bored and by her nature impatient, tuned out a little. At least she knew she was about in the right place and that the Chief of Police in the town to which she was headed was partly clued in on the unexplainable. She wondered if she could talk to him about finding Miles Matheson.

As she debated again whether to approach the Reservation, she noticed the teen, Jacob, and the girl, Nessie, now looking toward her where she stood uphill. As neutral as possible, Charlotte raised her right hand briefly in an attempt at a nonthreatening greeting. Knowing how much her own father had sheltered her secret from others and how dangerous a world they lived in, she allowed Jacob to approach her, herself not daring to trespass onto the property.

"You a long way from home?"

She swallowed. "I have no home. Not anymore." Admission: the first step toward acceptance.

He looked her up and down, and Charlotte could see him turning words over behind his eyes. "Sorry to hear that."

Charlotte sort of shrugged before squaring her shoulders at Jacob. "Have you lived here for long?" His eyes narrowed on her. She added, "I'm looking for someone. Miles?" He remained silent. "Miles Matheson?"

"Sorry, I can't help you."

He started to turn, but Charlotte reached out and grabbed ahold of his left shoulder. "Please—my brother—"

"I don't sense another shifter."

She was quickly getting upset by being blown off so easily, after four long days of searching for this pack of shifters, so she spoke hurriedly. "He isn't. He isn't anything. I think they took him by mistake."

"'They'?"

Charlotte shifted on her feet, her eyes fixating on a tree over Jacob's shoulder. She swallowed. "Look, a lot's happened, a lot I don't want to talk about. What's important is that I think they came for me because of what I am, and I need to find Miles Matheson. He can help me."

"If there are people after shifters, I wanna know about it. I have to. To protect my pack."

His shoulders were held stiffly, his face leaning forward, and as a result Charlotte felt defensive, and her instinctive response was to be aggressive back. "Tell me where I can find Miles, and I'll tell you what I know."

The black-haired shifter turned back to see Nessie behind him, and he pulled back and relaxed his stance. "I think I am coming on too strong."

Charlotte's brows drew together, and her head tilted to the left. A silent question.

He continued, "I've lived here my whole life, but I don't know a Miles of any kind. I wish I could be more helpful."

"He lives in Forks," Charlotte tried, but Jacob shook his head. "Well, do you know anyone who might be able to help me look? Someone in our line of living?" Charlotte wanted to ask directly about the police chief in town, but knowing that Jacob already was reluctant to divulge, she bit her tongue to keep her earlier act of eavesdropping hidden and hoped he would suggest it himself. She was saved instead by Nessie.

"My grandpa's Chief of Police. He doesn't really know what we are, just that we are something else. He might help if he thought we were at risk, too."

Jacob looked displeased at Nessie's openness but seemed to like the twelve-year-old's tactic.

Charlotte hesitated before caving. "Not here in the open."

So Nessie and Jacob invited Charlotte onto the Reservation, leading her toward the boy shifter's house. "We have gone up against serious threats before," Nessie said, but it was hardly reassuring coming from a twelve-year-old.

Jacob looked at the girl and smiled quickly before turning his attention to Charlotte. They had reached a porch. He tried as reassuringly as possible, "Tell us what happened."

Charlie took a deep breath and exhaled.

"Four days ago, after dark, three men broke into my house. They were wearing all black: Black shoes, black vests over black tees, black cargo pants. They had utility belts and strange tools—weapons even. One of their handheld devices—black and boxey—jumbled me up somehow. I couldn't move right at first when they hit me with it. No, zapped me.

"My dad and Danny heard the ruckus and came down the stairs. One of them shot my dad. Danny charged at that man. I couldn't really see what happened. I reached out and grabbed Danny's shirt tail with my hands, but then they ripped him from his shirt.

"They scrambled, the three intruders, and I tried to stop them, but I couldn't shift. I think it was the zapper box. They said something about bagging a shifter. One of them came toward me, but my dad fired at them with a gun I didn't know he had. He missed, and they got away.

"My brother, Danny, was abducted by these men. It was supposed to be me. I have to get him back."

Charlie didn't want to mention the tattoos exposed on their left forearms. She had to hold something back. She felt more in control that way.

"Where is your dad now?" Jacob asked.

She wore her feelings on her sleeve, so one could hear the tremor in her voice, see it in her eyes. Charlotte knew it, and she hated that. "Dead. But before he died, he told me, 'Find Miles Matheson in Forks. Your name will be enough to gain his trust. He will help you get Danny.'"

Jacob looked sullen; Nessie, as if she herself had been wounded. Nessie said, "Well, cops have resources, right? Like, databases to search?"

Charlotte was hopeful. It was the only lead she now had on finding Miles. "Think he will help?"

"Charlie's a bit clueless on this side of things, but he would do anything for his family. You say these guys were trying to bag shifters?"

"Charlie?"

"Charlie Swan."

"That's my name, too—Charlotte."

"Jacob."

"And I am Renesmee," said Nessie.

"I don't suppose you would be willing to drive me to the station in town?" Charlotte asked.

"No need," said Jacob. "He’s inside. Best friends with my dad for years now."

Jacob led the girls inside. Two men drinking beer sat in the living room around an old television which played a football game. The brown-eyed man in the recliner turned toward the door. He had short, brown hair and the tips had started to silver. A mustache stood thick and nearing bushy atop his lip, and it curved into a small smile at the sight of the young girl. “Grandbaby,” he said, grin growing bigger as he spread his arms and Nessie skipped toward him.

Nessie reached in to hug the man, then put her hand on his cheek and said, “You smell like beer, Grandpa.”

Charlotte blinked. Grandpa? He hardly looked older than forty. Was this drunk _the police chief_?

“I’m trying something not any different from what I usually do.”

The man who must have been Jacob’s father said from the couch, “That’s not true! You didn’t start with the shot of whiskey.”

“The man’s got a point,” Nessie’s grandfather said, gesturing with his bottle of beer. “And these aren’t cans. See? Glass. Spent the big bucks today.”

Nessie kept silent and dropped her hand. Her grandpa blinked a few times before looking quizzically over at Charlotte in the entryway, analyzing her.

Charlotte swallowed at his gaze. She felt sized-up and like she would lose. When he first started speaking, the depth of his voice startled her, and she flinched.

“And you are?”

“Macer,” her voice’s shaking betrayed her confidence. She cleared her throat. “Charlotte Macer.”

The man sat back in the chair, and it felt like he was looking down on her.

She hated it, but for several reasons—none of which she could name—felt that she had to gain his favor.

“Chief Swan,” he offered impersonally before turning his attention to the television, his eyes partly glazing over. After two plays, he hitched his elbow on the back of the seat and used it to lever himself up straighter, turning back to her. “How can I help you?”

Charlotte drew in a breath and stabilized herself. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m looking for a man named Miles Matheson.”

Chief Swan looked to the floor and shrugged before catching her eyes. “Never heard of him.”

“No,” she said as she stepped forward, her voice heightened from the nervous rush of adrenaline still lingering in her limbs and lungs. “He has to be here.”

“What do you want me to say, kid? It’s a fairly small town.”

She sighed and looked down at her feet. “My brother was abducted. My dad was murdered.” She looked him in the eyes with her blue ones and said evenly, “Please, help me find Miles Matheson. He is the only one who can help me rescue my brother, and if _you_ can find him, then _you’re_ the only one who can help me right now.”

“Did these three men have any distinguishing marks? Scars? Tattoos?” asked Chief Swan, his eyes a little softer than before.

“N-no,” lied Charlotte, and the chief’s eyes narrowed.

“Look at me when you answer.”

Charlotte looked up. She opened her mouth to talk and paused, her thinking taking her down a different course of conversation. “I didn’t say anything about the people who did this.”

The chief raised an eyebrow. “No, my granddaughter did. She relayed to me everything you said to her along the treeline at the edge of the Reservation.”

Charlotte looked over at Nessie, who recoiled, sheepish. “I talk with my hands sometimes.”

Earlier. The hand to the face.

Charlotte sighed. “Yeah, alright.” She returned Chief Swan’s gaze. “Tattoos. Every one of them.”

“Of?”

“A word. ‘Incog’.”

Jacob spoke up from the corner of the room. “That’s eerie.” The police chief made a face at him. “Charlie, these guys were trying to nab her—a shifter, and they had the gear to do so. Then they took her brother and killed her father. By the way, that’s what I am—shapeshifters are what the Quileute are."

Charlie Swan looked from Jacob back to Charlotte Macer, gritting his teeth in frustration. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Nessie. “Is my family in danger, Jacob?”

“Grand—”

“Ness, no.”

She heeded.

“I don’t know,” answered Jacob. "If they could affect us the way she described? Who knows what they're capable of."

Charlie looked displeased. Now that his attention was back on the television, Charlotte wasn’t sure if he found more displeasure in the conversation or the Seattle Seahawk defense. Then the chief sighed, stretched his arms up above his head, and stood. “Alright, kid,” he dug in his pockets and tossed his keys toward the blonde. “You’re driving.”

Charlotte looked down at the keys in her hand and let out a breath herself. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure of this.

“And tell me everything, with every possible detail. Anything you remember at all—wait, let me get the tape recorder, so I don’t forget.” He picked up an unopened bottle of beer, too. When she raised a brow condescendingly, the chief quipped, “For the road.”

-

“‘Zapper box’?” The chief mocked from the passenger’s seat.

“Well, that’s all I have to go on really to describe the thing.”

“Professionals usually refer to such objects as stun guns. I think it’s a rhyming thing. Seems clever. Or catchy. Although those things aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.”

“It wasn’t a stun gun! It was something else.” The chief smiled at her stupidly. “I’m serious. I’ve been TASERed before.”

Charlie angled his head at her, raising his eyebrows and forming a small ‘o’ with his mouth. “Please do divulge.”

Charlotte shook her head, fighting the smile that was weaseling its way across her lips as it edged away at her irritation. “It doesn’t matter. That affected my muscle control very briefly. But this was different. It was... _more_ somehow. I couldn’t hear right, I couldn’t shift—I could barely even register what was going on.”

Charlie’s face had changed from playful to pensive, even uptight a little. “Might affect the nervous system. Autonomic even.”

“Autonomic?”

He continued, “Some things—like your muscles—you can control completely. Some things, like your emotions, you can’t so much. They result from nerve firings in your brain which communicate to other parts of the body. Jumble the messages up, and it’ll take longer to decode and process.”

“What makes you think it’s auto—? That kind of thing.”

“What motivates you into shifting?”

“I’m usually really angry, or upset, or scared.”

“Exactly. It’s driven by an emotional response. Emotions are controlled by specific areas of the brain.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Oh, I haven’t always been Chief of Police!” Charlie put his hands on the back of his head, tying his fingers together. “Used to meddle around a little before deciding to become a cop. Back when I was young and spry.”

“...How old _are_ you, by the way?”

“How dare you!” declared the chief in mock offense, right eyebrow raised, voice raspy. “And don’t ask so many questions. I’m running this interrogation.”

“Whatever you say, _Grandpa_.”

Charlie chuckled. “Yeah... That’s a very long and very _weird_ story.”

“How weird?”

“Ness was born not quite two years ago.”

“Yep, that’s a new one. For me, at least.”

“My daughter’s barely 18.” He paused. Charlotte could tell from the little time she had spent with Chief Swan that he was good at reading people. Charlotte had not been able to read him well in return. But she could definitely tell that _that_ was a pause; his inflection slightly hung in the air, as if he had planned to say more but thought better of it. “Guess you’re about that age?”

“I’ve got a few years on her,” said Charlotte, winking.

“Oo, you’re playful, too,” Charlie said. “We’ll get along fine enough.”

Charlotte had to admit she felt less weight on her chest than any other time in the last four days. It was the first time she had stopped thinking about her problems and had focused in on someone else’s. Charlie had something weighing him down, something relating to his daughter, and the earlier memory of his drinking only reiterated that, especially when she heard the sound of air pressure escaping from an unlidded bottle coming from the seat next to her. “Hey, we’re in a car! Open container!”

“Don’t worry. You can trust me. I won’t turn on you.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She reached over to grab at the bottle, but Charlie pulled it back into his right shoulder, using his frame and the car door to help keep it from her grasp.

“Bold move for someone begging for my help.”

“Oh, come on! I wasn’t _begging_ —!” She withdrew her reach and placed her right hand back on the steering wheel.

“There was some whine in that voice.”

“No—”

“Definitely some quivering.” Charlie took an awkward swallow of his beer.

A corner of Charlotte’s mouth had turned up, as she tried mockingly, “Okay.”

“Finally. Admitting defeat.”

“I wasn’t admitting def—” Charlotte turned the car to the right down a road of houses at which Charlie gestured. “You are going to help me, though, right?”

Charlie sighed. It was something he did a lot, apparently. “Kid, what happens if we can’t find this guy?”

“I go after them anyway.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. _You do_. It’s why you’re looking for this guy you’ve never even met. Why you need him.”

“I need my brother. My dad knew that this is who could get him back.”

“You need to think things through yourself, or your brother won’t have a sister to rescue him.”

She risked taking her eyes off the wet, gray road before her and turned them on the man in the car with her.

She spoke slowly and deliberately. “These guys? They were after _me_ , and they took _my brother_. I _let them take my brother_. _I’m going to get him back_ , with or without _you_ , with or without _Miles Matheson_.”

“INCOG isn’t an organization you can simply take on.”

Charlotte slammed on the breaks, and Charlie groaned, lurching forward and wrapping his left arm around his stomach. “What do you mean? _What do you know_?”

Charlie burped.

“What are you holding back?! I’ve wasted four days already looking for Miles Matheson! It’ll only take one good rain to lose track of my brother forever. I’ve come too far to be thwarted by some self-loathing alcoholic—”

“Hey, hey! Holier-Than-Thou! Calm yourself down... I’m Chief of Police in a town overrun by hormonal teens that shift into wolves and centuries-old vampires and _God knows what else_. I sure as hell know a thing or two about INCOG. And, _tch_ —‘self-loathing’— _please_.”

“Now who’s whining?” rebuked Charlotte, grinding her teeth in anger.

“I’m feeling a little defensive after the whole slamming on the brakes _and me_ thing. For future reference, there’s no need for name-calling. Now pull the car ahead a few more houses.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, we’re not moving an inch, not until you tell me—”

“I am, I am. In my house. Three properties down.” He gestured with his hand. “See that old red pickup?”

Charlotte stared him down. She did not trust him. She felt she could not trust anyone.

“I get it. Your dad is dead, your brother is as good as it, and you just wanna keep what’s left of your family together. Just some semblance of it. Believe me, Charlotte, I get it.”

He looked at her, and for the first time, Charlotte could get a complete read on him, and she saw it: his misery, his exhaustion, his helplessness, his isolation.

When she spoke, it was soft and understanding. “Sometimes I get selfish, defensive, and judgy.”

“I’m always selfish, defensive, and judgy. But people just sum it up in a single word: asshole.”

Charlotte let a small smile escape. “You know, from what Renesmee and Jacob were saying earlier, they made it sound like you were nearly a dunce at all this supernatural stuff.”

“Interesting choice of word, supernatural. You seem pretty natural to me.”

She didn’t say anything. She had pulled up the car and parked in the driveway. Once they got through the door and inside, she prompted Charlie to give her the details. “What’s INCOG, and why do they want me?”


	2. Miles Nearby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank to Hithelleth, the amazing beta. I also previously forgot to mention that, since I've only read the first two Twilight books (back in 2008, mind you), I have been pulling a lot of needed details of the Twilight world from the Twilight Saga Wiki on Wikia (twilightsaga.wikia.com/). Credit where it's due and all.

Charlie Swan sighed and motioned for Charlotte to follow him into his kitchen, where he then sat himself in a white chair at the four-top table in the corner. The kitchen itself wasn’t anything too impressive: White walls, white fridge, and the few windows letting light in did nothing to speak of Charlie as a person, except maybe that he was plain and single.

"INCOG is a hush-hush, privately funded corporation that deals mainly with research in the biological sector, although their specimens tend to take on more of a Sci-fi form," he said, gesturing at her by raising his eyebrows. The chief added almost nonchalantly, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the tabletop, "They likely want to study you."

Charlotte half charged the table and stopped, standing over him. "Experiments?! Like I’m some animal?!" He looked her hard in the eyes, frowning his brows at her, and when he kept silent, Charlotte pressed, her voice straining, "Hey! I thought you were going to talk to me!"

Charlie still didn't answer. He looked down at the grain in the tabletop, and Charlotte thought she saw conflict in his clouded, brown eyes. Maybe he was imagining a future possibility based on some past experience. He spoke hard but at a low volume and quickly, his impatience his own fault for dragging this out for her. "Yes, as in, extraction, experimentation," he took a breath, "execution... You name it, they do it. And they’ve got plenty of laboratories for it." He stayed hunched over the table but turned his head up to look at her, gauging her reaction.

Charlotte plopped down in the seat to his right. "No..."

"Afraid so. Now you see why going up all ready-fire-aim against them is the wrong move."

"How do you know about them?"

Charlie leaned back against the chair, brought his hands to the back of his head, and stared at the ceiling while answering. "They helped me do a clean-up on a couple of murders I had a few years back. Animal attacks." He suddenly looked thoughtful. "They did have a few strange-looking guns on them."

"You're lying."

Charlie returned Charlotte's challenging look. "What? You don't trust me?"

Charlotte huffed. "Give me a _reason._ "

Silence settled between them for several seconds. Charlie had his right brow raised, skeptical in his appraisal of Charlotte, but she moved her hands together over the table, each holding the other, and she raised her head, her blue eyes burning bright. She spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice as even as possible, but the heaviness of the words could not be stamped out. “Danny is my _whole world_. It’s _always_ been him and me, ever since we lost Mom. If I lose him, I lose everything I know about who I am. I’m pouring myself into this, because everything I love is already being taken from me. Can you understand that? I can’t explain it because I don’t understand why, but I need to believe you. I think I really need your help.”

Charlotte could see the way Charlie’s shoulders gradually drooped in surrender. He avoided her eyes, at first, but found looking away from her to be harder and harder.

“Once, there was a miserable guy. His name was Miles. He made choices he wished he hadn’t, and he ran from them until he had nothing left. He hoped the repercussions would never catch up to him, but he got hurt anyway. He ran as fast and as far as he could, but it hasn't been enough. He’s still miserable—and a coward.”

A look of disgust briefly crossed his face before he gulped audibly, like he had swallowed something that was hard to stomach—something he did not chew up well enough because it did not taste good to begin with.

Still, Charlotte registered plainly the confession, the cogs in her brain gliding into place. She felt unsure of what to do, and he did not seem too accustomed to being vulnerable; so she played along, adopting his passive aggression, as if he needed it. “How can Miles help with INCOG?”

“Not only does he have combat experience, but also he has intel on their protocols and operations. One of his best friends, Ben, kept tabs on them to protect his kid."

She dropped the passivity and headed straight for aggression. "My dad...? He knew about them? How? For how long?"

"That's not as important as figuring out where they're taking your brother and what they'll do when they find out he isn't what they think he is."

"What do you mean? If he isn't supernatural, they won't experiment on him, right?"

"Exactly," he said, somberly adding, "Now we can't be sure how long they'll keep him alive upon returning to base."

Charlotte bolted up from the chair. "We've got to get moving! How could you have wasted all this time already?! Danny's out there, scared and headed to die!"

"Calm down, Charlotte. There's only so much we can do right now that we have control over. We have to be smart about this, remember? Patience. Don’t run headlong into trouble."

Charlotte lowered her head but kept her eyes locked with his—a challenge—the corners of her lips turning up in a slightly irritated smirk. “Yeah. Well. It’s worked pretty well for me so far.”

Charlie made a disbelieving face, at which Charlotte straightened defensively, puffing out her chest and sticking up her chin. “And, anyway, I have blown too much time already looking for _you_.”

“You’ll have to spend a little bit more time out of the hot zone. You need training. These guys are military-grade. Their purpose is extraction, but their specialty is extermination. As it is, you don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m a shifter. A tracker. Their strength and speed will be nothing when I—”

“Was it nothing four days ago, when only three of them rendered you useless, murdered your dad, and bag-and-tagged your brother, like animals?”

Charlotte screwed up her mouth in either disgust or anger or pain. She felt sure it was a little of each.

"And then you let them get away." Charlie stood from the table, took a slow step forward just enough into her space for her to smell the stale beer on his breath, and steeled his eyes carefully. “Hear me, kid. You wanna know why Daddy sent you to me? Because your wolfish instinct is to fight, but mine is to kill. To kill and survive. _That's_ what has worked pretty well for _me_ so far, and what Ben clearly wanted was for you to come out of this thing alive. So, we do this my way. That means basic tactical and combat training.”

Charlotte relented only after asking about his qualifications, to which Charlie replied, “Combat has been my life. Even now, I carry a gun, not to feel safe, but to feel right."

“What does your daughter think, and your granddaughter?”

He took a step back. “They don’t know—neither of them— _and they won’t_.” Then, he hiccuped. "Water."

Charlotte looked away in frustration as Charlie made his way toward a cabinet on the wall to her left to fix a glass.

Oh, two glasses. "Thank you," Charlotte said, before returning to her directive. "So, training—how soon can we start, and for how long?"

"Now—well, after the water," answered Charlie lightly. “We’ll use the afternoon and evening to train. Rest. Depart for the Seattle lab in the morning. Hopefully someone there will know which location Danny is being taken to.”

Charlotte scrunched her eyebrows together. "Aren't you drunk?"

"Uh, _yeah_ ," he said, winking, "It's part of the charm. Don't worry. I've done this before."

It was hardly a reassuring gesture, but Charlotte couldn't help but be reassured by it. Perhaps Charlie really _was_ endearing. Weirdly, he seemed completely harmless and simple on the surface, but Charlotte felt a strength buried deep down in him, and with it a hidden darkness. Well, she supposed it was not too hard to see that he was miserable (short of him admitting it already), but she suspected that Charlie Swan or Miles Matheson or Whoever He Was was someone who had made a lot of bad choices which he wanted to keep secret from her. Like, somehow, he was afraid he would betray her in the end. Or maybe he had betrayed her already.

He was a walking contradiction, built up one way, ripped apart one piece at a time, and put back another way, fucked up by every mistake he never looked back on but carried around with him anyway.

Charlotte felt curious about Charlie. She kept a quiet examination of him as he took the glass to his lips and swallowed three big gulps of ice-cold water before bringing it down to his waist, using his left sleeve to wipe the wetness off the tips of his mustache hairs. His stance seemed as relaxed as back at the Reservation in the armchair, but, now that Charlotte was looking more closely, she noticed tension in his neck and shoulders, and his eyes merely seemed unfocused. However, his ears were twitching like he was straining to hear something. He was not nervous or thoughtful: He was alert. He was keeping watch. And yet his shoulders were set carefully into a relaxed slouch, his head lowered as if slack.

He was some kind of soldier, that was certain. Formally trained in keeping his head low and his ears to the ground.

But at forty three or forty five, and a nineteen-year stay in Forks, that did not leave too much time for tours in the Middle East. What, then, was the extent of his involvement?

One thing was plainly evident: Charlie Swan knew how to keep from being found out. Everything he did seemed to serve some purpose. His purpose—to stay hidden—was clear to her, but exactly why eluded Charlotte and piqued her interest. What exactly was he running from?

His tongue flicked out across his lips. Charlotte mimicked him, now in a kind of reverie, and tilted her head slightly to the right. Finally returning to the present moment, she asked him, "Who are you hiding from?"

Charlie brought his eyes up to hers and asked, "What makes you think I'm hiding from someone?"

Charlotte hummed victoriously. "So it _is_ a someone."

"It's a combination of things... events... people."

"But it _is_ someone _specific_ who you're running from?"

"Are you asking?"

"N-no, I'm getting a read on you."

"You're getting a read on me." The superiority was as evident in his voice as it was across his face.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Yes, sir. Affirmative, sir... You've clearly got your eyes peeled for something."

He relented, adopting a more bearable attitude. "Any number of the other ten."

"What’s that now?"

"INCOG's extraction teams consist of thirteen: twelve guys and a captain. If only three broke into your house, I'm wondering about the other ten—which, if any, are on your tail and headed our way. No pun intended on the tail comment."

Charlotte ignored his dig. "How familiar with their operations are you?"

"More or less. They have always been on our radar. Your dad kept a gun for a reason, you know."

"I don't know. I can't believe my dad knew about these people and didn't tell me about them."

"He is your father. He'd do anything for you. Whatever he did or didn't keep from you was to protect you. Remember that and respect him."

"Maybe it wasn't his decision to make. Maybe he would still be alive if he had told me."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe not. But one thing's for sure: There is no point in playing this game with yourself. What's passed is past."

"So I should run from these answers like you?"

Charlie stepped toward her, speaking softly, "All I’m saying is you could lose sight of what's going on around you if you spend too much time thinking about the past." He reached out awkwardly with his left hand and squeezed hers for a half-second before letting go. "I loved your dad. He was a good man. Not perfect by any means. But he'd have done anything for you, and I'm sorry you lost that."

Charlotte nodded but remained silent and looked at the floor. Her thumb began to play with some of the skin on her palm that he had touched and left cold.

He backed up and turned around, setting his empty glass down on the counter, his back to her. He spoke softly. "I want to make sure you don't lose your brother, too."

Charlotte looked up at Charlie. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at her. His voice was grainy but deep and determined. "I swear it."

This time Charlotte nodded firmly, squaring her shoulders and clenching her fists, her cheeks fighting her lips as they curved into a crooked smile. What they were going to do was formidable and dangerous—a rare adventure with the momentum to change her life forever—and, God help her, it was all bubbling to the surface and she was _excited_.

Charlie snarked, exclaiming loudly out of character, "What are we waiting around for, then? We are wasting time! Let's train already!"

"—Is that supposed to be me?" She feigned offense and laughed with him anyway.

-

The sun had begun to set through the trees as Charlie and Charlotte practiced among the dirt and dead leaves on the floor of a small nook in the forest across the street from the house. It was not too deep in from Charlie's property, but it did take a good twenty minutes of walking to get there. The clearing, if it could be called that, was too small and too shadowed by treetops for any grass or wildflowers to grow rightly. Although there were a few patches of yellow blades here and there, the grass was mostly dead or dying and a bit weedy; but, since the area seemed to have been used before, at the very least the dirt was more trodden than loose. This was good for traction and balance, but very bad if balance was lost for which someone took a hard fall to the ground. The tall trees bordering the training grounds had huge scratches and inch-long punctures at various heights in their bark, and at one point Charlotte wondered if Charlie himself used it for his own combat training.

“It’s just a scratch,” Charlie said coolly, standing over her as he nodded at the red liquid gathering at Charlotte’s left elbow.

Charlotte, half-propped by her hands, pushed off the ground, bringing her knees into her chest and standing up. The movement was a little clumsy and uncontrolled: a sign of exhaustion. She breathed heavily, gasping and panting, her face flushed and her hair disheveled. Sweat dripped from her neck and chest, as well as from her forehead, where it slid down the sides of her face. Behind and beneath her ears, as well as on her arms, sweat mixed with dirt, drying into a muddy crust on her skin. Her jacket, as well as Charlie’s red flannel shirt, were dirty and dangling over a half-broken, low-hanging tree limb to the side, abandoned nearly two hours earlier.

Charlie used the tail of his gray undershirt to wipe sweat from his brow, his flesh shiny from his own workout. Charlotte might have lingered on his slender stomach if her attention had not been drawn to the start of a scar starting high on the front of his hip and disappearing below the waistline of his dirtied blue jeans. She looked back up to his face when his shirt started to fall back down and he began to speak.

“Don’t mind the blood so much, or the sting or ache that may come with it. Your break form is getting better. But protecting the important parts when you fall can mean other parts taking damage. Just remember to keep your head up so that it doesn’t hit the ground when you break your fall. You’ve also got to learn to resist the reflex to nurse your wound or hold it. Your opponent will get an idea of the damage you took and how it is affecting you, and it also gives them enough reaction time to follow through with a combination.”

Charlotte nodded, trying to note the corrections in order to make adjustments. Charlie threw his left hand toward her midriff, and Charlotte exhaled as she brought her own right arm across, using her inner forearm to block the attack back outside to her left. She quickly inhaled again as she brought her right hand down toward her right thigh, where she saw Charlie’s attention had been directed; but instead of his left hand striking low to the groin on her right side, as she anticipated, his right hand doubled back from her left. Charlotte’s eyes grew wide, but her movements were belated, and she found herself getting knocked right to the ground. Implementing break form to decrease falling damage, she fell on her right side with her right leg laying flat on the ground and slightly bent, and her right arm, flat and at a forty-five degree angle out from her body. Her arm, leg, and hip absorbed the impact, but she kept her neck slightly bent, shielding her head from the floor.

“Professionals don't tend to give away their target via their line of sight. In fact, they'll often use their eyes to mislead you. Watch their core: Where is is their belly button facing? If their chest is facing your right, brace for an attack to that side. Which shoulder looks tense for an attack, and which is poised for defense? They can fool you with their limbs and eyes, but the center of the body can't be used effectively in misdirection. Charlotte, stand back up.”

Charlotte lay flat on her back, her arms and legs now splayed out. A sliver of skin peeked out from under her tank top as her stomach rose and fell with her chest, her diaphragm rapidly working for air. “I need—a second—."

"The idea is to jump back up on your feet into ready position."

" _You_ fall on _your_ ass thirty times and see how _ready_ you are for number thirty one." Charlie smirked as Charlotte tried to regulate her breathing. "Well, at least one of us is enjoying this."

"Very much," he said as if it were some big consolation, grinning.

Charlotte reluctantly but fully smiled back.

For a beat, a strained silence fell between them. Charlie, probably because he did not know what to do with himself, backed up about eight feet and said, "Just stay right there. I'm going to attack you."

"What?"

Charlie took two leaps forward and swung his right foot up into the air, preparing for a downward strike. Reflexively, Charlotte rolled onto her stomach, dodging the kick, her mouth and lungs getting a dose of the dirt kicked off the ground. Charlie shifted quickly into a near squat position, his right arm extended forward and his left hand back at his shoulder and head. As he brought his left fist down toward the side of her waist, Charlotte rolled a full 360 degrees, catching herself with her hands and pushing herself onto her hands and knees. She could see Charlie move closer in her peripheral and rapidly pulled up her arms, bracing to block an oncoming attack.

Instead Charlie wrapped one arm around her waist and the other around her neck and pulled her up. Charlotte started to kick wildly as Charlie's forearm pulled her windpipe back against him. When she started to go slack, he loosened his pull. His mouth in her ear, he said low, slightly out of breath, "Don't ever take your eyes off your opponent. They may subdue you from your blind spot."

A tingle spread from Charlotte's ear, down her neck, to her core, a slight shiver running down her spine.

Then Charlie continued, his voice still low and slightly taunting. "How helpful was your super strength and speed just then against me?"

She huffed, her breath pushing at the hair across her face, and, peeved, pushed him off of her with the bottom of her right foot and her elbows. Charlie relaxed his grip, breathing out a chuckle as he let her have some space. She spun around, her cheeks bright red, her eyes wild, and her hands poised to attack. She lunged at him recklessly, swinging her right fist at his jaw but missing, the rest of her body following the momentum through. Charlie merely pushed the back of her shoulder, and she began to fall but caught herself with the tips of her left fingers. She planted both hands firmly on the ground and used her core to thrust her left foot behind her toward Charlie's groin.

He caught her foot with both hands and began twisting, manipulating the joint until she let out a squeal, and then he dropped her foot to the ground.

"What have I been telling you about charging in so rashly? It is all about control. Control your movements. Control your emotions. I'm not about to tell you that anger or frustration or even love aren't great motivators— _when they're moderated_. But don't let them control you, or it could cost you."

Charlotte had collapsed onto her stomach. She loathed how she felt at the moment: enraged, frustrated, humiliated, like a failure, exhausted, and fucking sore. She stared at the ground, her eyes tracing patterns in the dirt, lips unmoving.

"We've been practicing all afternoon and sparring for the last two hours or so. The sun'll be down in thirty anyway. Why don't we call it? Grab some food and then rest up."

Charlotte didn't say anything but pushed herself up from the ground and made her way to the old tree to collect her jacket. Charlie followed her, awkwardly placing several feet between them, as if her seething was radiating off so hotly it might burn him, wearing a small scowl of his own.

Once they walked to the house, Charlie led her to the drive where the old truck sat and pulled out his keys. "There's this grill, the Lodge," he said curtly by way of explanation.

"Sure." She climbed into the passenger seat, the doors on both sides creaking loudly as they were opened and shut again.

They drove in silence for most of the short ride to the restaurant, except for the last minute, when Charlie broke the stale silence by saying, "Got this old truck for my daughter."

Charlotte responded automatically, "I'm sure she'll love it."

"She gave it back last year. Got married. Doesn't need it anymore."

Charlotte turned her head to look at him, and she noticed how his left elbow was propped on the window, his hand holding his face. "I'm sure it's not that she doesn't need it. Maybe she just needs to know what life is like without a car to depend on."

"Hmn."

He turned the car into the parking lot and pulled into a particularly narrow spot with ease.

"Nailed it," Charlotte cheered gently.

"I might have been here a few times."

She laughed. "How many?"

" _Enough_ ," he tried to keep a straight face as he opened the door for her, a bell jingling to announce their arrival.

The restaurant was slow, the dinner rush mostly over. The decor was a little tacky, and stuffed animals lined the wooden walls. The tables and chairs were wooden, too, excluding the metal bar counter and stools. The windows had sun-faded-pink curtains attached to wooden poles with white, plastic rings. It was plain yet absurd. But an appetizing amalgamation of smells of greasy, fried food and baked cobblers filling up the large room compensated for the owner's taste in fashion.

"Heya, Charlie!" greeted a young African American woman from behind the counter. She wore a seafoam green dress, her thick, curly hair coming down to her shoulders to frame a gorgeous diamond flower pendant that hung from her neck on a silver chain. "I was wondering if you'd be coming in for dinner. You're running later than usual." Her mood quickly adjusted to the filthy clothes and a small scratch on Charlie's cheek. "Did you get into some kind of trouble, chief?"

"No more than what I've agreed to," he replied pleasantly, and a bruised Charlotte was slightly taken aback by Charlie's behavioral adjustment. Although still withdrawn, he spoke very lightly, his tone welcoming, even jovial. "Cora, this is Charlotte Macer, family friend, visiting from Chicago."

Charlie started to walk Charlotte to a table in the corner by the window, the other woman following out from around the counter.

"Oh, that sounds exciting!" Cora said to Charlotte, "Chicago, huh?"

Charlotte nodded, but Charlie cut back in. "And here I thought you were thrilled to hear I found a friend."

"Oh, Charlie. You're a recluse, but you're always so friendly and kind. Who isn't your friend?"

Charlotte started coughing to smother an odd noise that resonated disbelief a lot, and, although Charlie's smile grew wider, he continued the exchange as if he had not been aware, "Well, thank you for noticing."

"You gonna want to start with some fried cheese this time?"

"Yes, and two waters, please."

"Sure thing, chief."

Cora left them to their table, where Charlie and Charlotte each sat on the sides by the window, leaving the other two sides exposed to the rest of the restaurant. "Came here after my daughter's graduation."

"What's her name? Your daughter's," she added after a beat.

"Bella. Isabella."

She smiled, small but real. "That's a pretty name."

"Don't give me any credit for it."

"Copy that."

"You're really enjoying all this soldier jargon, aren't you."

"Does it show? I only use it whenever an opportunity presents itself." Charlotte looked at him smugly before adding a leading question, "Does it make you feel all nostalgic?"

"I was never a soldier," Charlie scoffed, not taking the bait, instead playing drums on the edge of the table with his index fingers, his shoulders hunched over slightly.

"Oh no?" Charlotte asked in a mix of skepticism and scorn.

"Really."

Charlotte reclined in her chair, draping her right arm across the table. "No way. You served."

"Nope." his voice was sing-song. "I’ve been served. With divorce papers."

"What happened to 'Combat is my life!'"

"Don't make assumptions of what that means."

"It's not an assumption. It's a conclusion based on obtained evidence."

"'Evidence'?" Charlie snorted. "You sound like your dad."

"Aside from your comment, how about your fighting ability?"

"I'm a police officer. We are trained in hand-to-hand fighting on top of shooting, you know."

"And how many police officers do you have working for you who have an arsenal of MCMAP techniques?"

"Three, in fact.” Charlie paused just long enough for Charlotte to act impressed. “...I might’ve taught them. And what do you know about Marine Corps Martial Arts?"

“Not much, but my dad knew a couple of moves from high school. He taught me to do a Face Rip from the Guard position.” Charlotte paused, contorting her hands in the air around a would-be attacker and pretending to tug on hair and pull at a chin in order to twist the neck into an awkward angle, before resuming with her data: "The way you hold yourself."

"You mean, how I'm _actually_ 'at ease'? I _slouch_."

"It isn't natural."

"How dare you."

“ _For you_. It doesn’t look Miles-like.” Charlotte tried hard to suppress the smile creeping across her face, Charlie's quick mood rubbing off on her, and then let some of the frustration through her voice to compensate. "I'm serious. It doesn’t seem like you’re slouching for real.”

“ _Miles-like_? And what would you know about what’s _Miles-like_?”

“Don’t deflect. _Dish_.”

Charlie looked at her, shaking his head, his cheeks turning his eyes into slits as a hesitant, awkward smile grew. He did look an awful lot like he was hiding something while enjoying the effect it had on his dinner guest. To be fair, it was clear he was against opening up, but Charlotte seemed to be doing a good enough job poking holes and having him spill a little at a time. So she raised her voice an octave and opened her eyes wide, pushing her luck. “Pleeeease!”

Charlotte liked the way Charlie’s body always seemed to surrender before he actually would start to confess.

“I met your dad at the academy in Illinois.”

“You went to military school? It all makes _sense_.”

“I was still going by Miles then, of course.”

“When did you stop?”

“Around the time I met Bella’s mom. She only knew me as Charlie Swan. I was nearly 24.”

“Why?”

“That’s a whole other story." Charlie waved his hand as if to push the question out from between them. “Anyway, Ben and I went to Coe with another guy. The three of us were all best friends, since ninth grade. Benjamin, Sebastian, and Miles. You know your dad used to go by Benny?”

"Really? 'Benny'? Actually, that kind of suits him."

"Why is that?"

"It's harmless."

Charlie guffawed loudly, the comment catching him off guard.

Charlotte continued. "Seriously. Even with a gun, the guy couldn't do any damage."

"Don't worry," Charlie spoke nostalgically. "He has done plenty of damage throughout his life."

"Was that your influence?"

"Me? I serve and protect."

"Mm hmm."

Charlie drew a halo over his head while Cora set down two glasses of water, two straws, and a basket of mozzarella sticks onto the table before them. Then she asked Charlotte, "Know what you want, sweetie?"

"Oh," Charlotte started, "I haven't even looked at the menu yet."

"I already know what you want. It's Charlotte-like," smarted off Charlie.

Charlotte removed her right arm from the table, crossing it with her left across her chest. "And, tell me, what's _Charlotte-like_?" her voice dripping with the same brand of sarcasm Charlie's had earlier.

"Bring her what I'm having," Charlie said to Cora, whom he then shooed away.

"Uncool. You aren't even gonna tell me? What if I hate it?"

"You're a wolf. Which red meat could ever disappoint you?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes but accepted his comment as a personal truth.

He spoke darkly, but the sparkle in his eyes, raise of his right brow, and curves of his lips were full of humor. "Aha! I'm getting a read on you."

"Yeah, yeah."


	3. Baker's Dozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte draws conclusions about Charlie Swan after being chased by INCOG; a look into the past yields answers and more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and patience, and as always a thanks to my beta, hithelleth, who gives me sound advice and helps me with my serious, sudden tense-changing problem.

Charlotte did not mind the time spent in the restaurant with Charlie. However, she also could not shake the growing tension in her body, disconcerted by her quickened breathing and the dull thud in her right temple. Slowed down by Charlie’s lack of urgency, she finally had time to get her wits about her, which also gave her an opportunity to think about her brother, Danny, and INCOG, the company who had taken him from her.

She first thought about the things she missed about Danny: the shock of blond hair and the shiny blue eyes she shared with him, the way his hoarse voice called after her whenever she would set off to take a risk, and how he would follow her anyway into whatever adventure she chose.

As a shapeshifter, she had many impulses, and had little reservation as a growing child, a lesson Danny learned repeatedly. On a particularly rainy day, while they played “Clobber the Creek”—her favorite childhood game which involved jumping around on large stones across the creek behind their house—Danny wiped out badly, slipping on one of the wet rocks, off its side, and into the creek, banging up both knees and skinning his right elbow. “You have knobby knees,” eight-year-old Charlotte had cooed after attempting to comfort little Danny had cried until his face had turned purple and nose snotty.

Now, though, a fact stared Charlotte in the face like some grotesque figure, looming undeniably right in front of her nose, snarling and with dripping fangs, so that she could get a long, dreadful look at the unfortunate ending she had helped set in motion: Danny refused to ever leave her side, and it had always seemed to get him into trouble. At that thought the guilt came, mounting itself into a tight lump at the edge of her throat, her breaths becoming even quicker and shallow.

She shouldn’t have done it; Danny had urged her not to; “Remember what Dad said about that;” but she hadn’t listened to him and had done it anyway, and then they had come for her...

INCOG had taken Danny while hunting for _her_ , the shapeshifter; and while trying to secure their next labrat, they had instead abducted her brother, her best friend, the one other person in the world who understood who she was and what she wanted and respected that. She wondered if she had returned the favor but could not think of a time she had heeded his warnings against her impetuous actions.

She felt shitty and selfish for her behavior the week leading up to Danny’s capture. How could she be expected to help him when she felt all she has done was fail him, time and again, like the chorus of some overplayed Top 40’s pop song?

The second-guessing of herself was bad enough that for a split second she thought of telling Charlie about what she had done to tip off INCOG in the first place, and then for the following second speculated Charlie’s (Miles’?) history with INCOG, and finally circled back to thinking about the shadow men themselves than about Charlie/Miles at all.

The men in the black combat suits, equipped with (among other items) what were surely guns; however the weapons were like no rifles she had seen before, except maybe in a movie on SyFy—with their oblong stocks, bizarrely angled forestocks, and the bluish glow running from the chamber along the barrel and to the muzzle at the end of the gun. The men sporting the two-handed light rifles, by which Charlotte came to remember them, wore masks: not ski-mask cotton but a fabric tightly woven so that it seemed durable and pre-formed rather than malleable, with a plastic-like visor for looking through and a mouthpiece which one seemed to be able to unsnap near the nose and hinge near the chin. Thick vests offered protection yet detracted speed. Sleek, white letters, capitalized as if screaming at her in warning, spelled out the name of her preoccupation, INCOG.

Some secret group of mad scientists who probably thought they were really fucking clever when they developed the epithet for their organization of which the public at large remained incognizant.

Charlie must have sensed Charlotte’s broody evolution, because he asked for the check before she had eaten even half of her baked potato and only a small portion of her steak. At that she realized she had been neither talking nor listening and wondered if he had been trying to get her attention at all. But when she looked across the table at him, she saw an ease to his slouch and concluded he seemed rather content with the silence.

“Thanks for dinner.” It was more social-contract than any genuine feeling she could conjure currently.

“Any time.”

Charlotte welcomed his nonchalance.

When they neared the truck in the now ghostly parking lot, both Charlie and Charlotte came to a halt.

The figure in black nearly matched Charlie in size, its own shuffling feet slowing to a stop, poised to break into a run, though in which direction was indeterminable. Charlotte recognized its scent from a living nightmare which had taken place not a week ago — it was the scent emanating from the shirts of the skilled invaders.

“My, my, Miles Matheson!”

Charlie took a step forward, putting himself between the voice and Charlotte, who peered alternatingly between Charlie’s face and the obscured silhouette.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Charlotte was not sure if Charlie meant it as a good thing or bad one.

Taking a step forward as well, the man stepped into enough light for Charlotte to note his sandy hair, black pants, and loose, black jacket. “To be honest, neither did I. But wouldn’t you know it? Bass was right. Go in for Ben; flush out Miles. It’s a shame about the cost, though. Oh, well. Bygones.”

The way he gestured about with his hands and the lightness in his tone gave Charlotte the impression that if they had met in any other circumstance she would have considered him to be completely harmless. In her current situation, however, Charlie’s movement and the easy way in which the man dismissed her father's death, and moreover his own hand in it, made her blood churn beneath her skin. _And all this to get to Charlie, no, Miles, she thought. Dad, his death, just collateral damage. But why? Why Miles?_ She stiffened, questioning if she should trust Miles at all. _But wasn’t it Dad who sent me here to him?_ Yet it was beginning to feel like she was driven here. Herded, like an animal, to her capture and eventual demise.

_Does Danny feel this way? Did Dad?_

She looked back to Miles and was met with a stern, closed-up countenance, his dark eyes battling some unidentified conflict.

He remained in control of his rage, though, suppressing it as turned to her. Ignoring the man, he guided her hurriedly to the truck by the cuff of her jacket sleeve, gripping her wrist as he was met by resistance.

"A lesson in survival, kid," he explained, rushing her along, "fight only when you can win, otherwise run. And I'm not in a mood to die today." 

“Oh, look at you, looking out for Ben’s pretty daughter,” the man called after them as Miles had already opened the passenger door and pushed Charlotte inside. His laughter made the hair stand on Charlotte’s neck. “Really, Miles. You’re always doing good things for selfish reasons.”

Miles moved around the car, sliding into the driver's seat in an instant, practically throwing the keys into the ignition. The old truck’s engine sputtered to life, its dull rumbling growing into a roar. Over her shoulder Charlotte saw a black SUV’s lights come on, and as Miles accelerated toward the lot’s exit, the vehicle followed them, only slowing to a roll for brief seconds during which Jeremy crawled into it. Miles pulled out and turned left. Another SUV, oncoming, maneuvered hard into a u-turn, so that it could pursue them, and suddenly two Escalades were running them down.

“He brought some friends,” quipped Miles, his eyes shifting back and forth between the rearview mirror and the scene ahead.

“Who was that guy talking about? What’d he mean?”

Miles stared ahead. “In a minute.”

Charlotte pressed by saying his name a few times, but Miles remained impassive. He used the chase as an out from the conversation, instead investing himself in his actions. He made a left turn, then a right. Another right, onto a street that bended like an L. Ahead two street lights were burnt out, and Miles killed his lights. Charlotte made a small gasp; it was so dark. The only light came from the night skies, and she could only guess that Miles must drive this street a lot.

After sixty seconds and two more turns in the dark, she heard the _click click_ of the lights coming back on.

“Sorry about that. Couldn’t brake or the tails would come on.” He cleared his throat. “Looks like we have lost him, for now. But if he knows who I am, it won't be long until he finds out where I live. So the plan is to spend ten minutes there, and that's it. We pack some things and get out quickly. He had two vehicles and most of his team it seemed, so Danny is probably being routed to Seattle.”

Charlotte had never unpacked.

“They’re after you. Why?”

A deep sigh preceded the setting in of exhaustion across his face, and Miles used the steering wheel to press his back into the seat. “I used to work for them.”

“You _what_? No. Then why would my dad send me to you?”

“He did, too.”

“He did what?”

“He worked for INCOG. He was the scientist. I was the soldier. Jeremy, too, that guy. And Bass…”

“Sebastian, the high school friend.”

Miles nodded.

“You all went on to work for INCOG? How could you?”

“Except for Jeremy, we were practically raised by INCOG. A few of our teen years were spent in their education facilities.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter? If you looked it up, it would read ‘defunct’.” Miles added, “And you weren’t born yet, didn’t exist. It was nothing personal.”

The words sounded ugly to Charlotte, and her face curled into a snarl. “And so you experimented on people.”

“Not me personally. I was an Extraction Specialist, and for a brief time headed up the EEU.”

Charlotte felt sick, very, very ill. Her heart twisted, her stomach churned, and she felt a hot burning run up the front of her spine and stick in her throat. She did not like the detail, the ease, with which Miles spoke, and she hated where this was going. “EEU?”

Miles blinked rapidly and looked out his side window at the mirror before glancing her way, probably to gauge her reaction. “Extraction/Execution Unit. I was a hard worker, for years. Youngest ever to be promoted to Head. Sebastian and I did considerable things together.”

 _A fool, Charlotte, you’re a damned fool!_ She shook her head slowly.

“But after awhile…” Miles voice hung in the air, and on second thought he expressed it differently. “I got out. Ran. Hid. This is them finding me,” and his hand gestured to empty air, as if his palm could encapsulate the entire situation in a ball of nitrogen, oxygen, and other gases.

Charlotte felt her eyes begin to sting and she wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, angrily. “You… Miles, you… you tore brothers from their homes and left their dads dead.”

He spat as he talked. “Yes, Charlotte, I’ve taken shifters and vampires and have done _much_ worse than kill the patriarch, believe me.”

“Then why? _Why_ did my dad trust you? Why did he _send_ me here?”

“Because a long time ago, I used INCOG to helped save Danny’s life.”

Charlotte stared at him, but Miles gazed right back, not breaking eye contact, not even to look at the road. He let her read him in order to see that he was telling her the truth.

When she remained stiff, Miles invited her to call him a monster.

She wasn’t quite sure she heard him right. For a few seconds, they sat there awkwardly, the soft patter of the tires along the concrete creating its own rhythm, slowly coaxing courage into Charlotte with each thud.

Feeling compassionate, Charlotte relaxed a little in her seat and spoke, “I don’t think you’re a monster. I’m just… trying to understand something hard to swallow.”

Miles shrugged. “Not sure how to help you. I don’t do this a lot, you know.”

“What?”

“Talk.”

He looked confused, as if genuinely puzzled by his own behavior, silently examining himself.

Charlotte sat further back, as if she could get a bird’s-eye view of Miles Matheson while pressed half against the door and half against the right side of her seat.

Her dad had trusted Miles, had spent his last breath telling her she must go to him. And until a few minutes ago, she had thought that she could trust him, too. Her initial impression was that he seemed to be someone in whom she could confide, someone who would go to battle for her, who might even win.

But Charlotte could not easily forget Jeremy’s claim about Miles’ selfishness. Though he had not seemed very selfish so far, Miles’ departure from INCOG weighed her down as much as it lifted her up. On one hand, maybe the implication was that Miles’ conscience grew louder, and his work became unbearable, his world but a blackness of shame and self-loathing. On the other hand, he left. He abandoned his mission. And the idea of getting close to Danny and the opportunity slipping through her fingers because Miles had fled would devastate her.

She had to admit that she barely knew the man, but she also kept in mind her father had known him for decades and believed he was her only answer.

Pragmatically, she could see in part why that was. If he used to work for INCOG, he had first-hand knowledge of their inner workings and locations of facilities, and was likely able to match the men who took her brother that night—men like Jeremy.

She closed her eyes, as if shutting off the world around her. She had done this as a youth when she had got worked up, when her emotions had been high enough to set off the Change, as a way to try to prevent it. Now, she used it not only to center herself but also as a way to get in touch with her instincts about situations or, in this case, people.

Eyes sealed tight, she focused intensely on a white fuzzy shape at the center of her vision. The grumble of the truck engine fell away. The anxiety she had felt over the last week disappeared. Danny and Ben disintegrated, as did her whole world, until all that was left was Miles. She lived there in that place for a stretch of time, until her shoulders went slack and she knew.

She trusted him.

—

Two decades ago, an opportunity opened its doors to a young but seasoned Miles Matheson, excited for his latest assignment, a trip to the second floor. Above ground. Operatives do not typically go Above Ground—frequently, they go Ashore, on assignment—but never Above Ground, to the offices where the politicians and businessmen make their deals and red tape is cut away.

No, Above Ground was meant for those visible, not for the Shadows slinking around.

Out of all three floors there were but two rooms, on the second floor, reserved for recruiting. Hiring outside the Beta Program was infrequent enough to seem an oddity, but Miles’ favorite thing about working for INCOG had always been the relationships with the compatriots with whom he shared adventures—the bond, the trust—so he bounded his way up the stairs to the second level, where his new charge would be waiting for him.

“Whoa, easy,” croaked a voice behind him. “We have 21 days for this, remember?”

“Can’t help it. This has me thinking back on our Revelation.”

His comrade chuckled. “Jesus, way back then?”

“Just five years, Bass.” Miles slammed his hands into the door’s push bar, a metal smack resounding loudly in the stairwell, and stepped into the hall.

The sound of their footsteps was dampened by the thin, dull-blue carpet. A few kitsch paintings hung in gold frames on the off-white walls. Outside a door sat a young man in a chair, no older than twenty, dark circles under his eyes indicating he had been awake for awhile.

48 hours, Miles knew, from his own Reprogramming. After all, to update an operating system first one had to wipe the drive clean.

As Bass imagined how life-changing this job would be for the security guard before him, mirth filled his blue eyes, and he grinned. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It was, if you think about it.”

The rather green lookout perked up when he realized the two fit, fastly approaching figures were headed directly to him. His sandy hair was mussed up, his white uniform shirt wrinkled, and his name badge reading JEREMY BAKER was skewed—all signs that he had been put through the initial testing; the fact that he sat before them proved he cleared it.

If Miles had not known better, he would have thought the recruit lacked the promise of discipline, but his months of reconnaissance had taught him better. Jeremy was both disciplined and good-natured, reliably eager, and exactly the right shade of optimistic.

“C—” Jeremy cleared his throat. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Interesting you should ask that, Mr. Baker,” asserted Bass.

The young charge looked from Bass to Miles, patiently waiting for elaboration.

Miles obliged. “You got the job.”

Miles was met hesitation. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Maybe not yet. It’s all a mess. The test is meant to be disorienting. And, of course, the data they throw at you...”

Bass stepped in to talk for his succinct friend. “Jeremy, we’re here to take you Below Deck, to get you started.”

“You mean I haven’t started already?” asked Jeremy, exhaustion rolling off him in waves.

Miles, feeling pity, bent down and helped pull the man out of his chair and onto his feet. “We’ll give you the tour and then let you take a nap. How’s that?”

He nodded in acceptance, and Miles and Bass began walking with him back toward the stairwell.

Bass continued, “You’re aware of what our company does, but you don’t understand what it needs of you. Our organization needs talent, Jeremy, and not only have you demonstrated the skill, but we believe you’re exactly the right kind of person for this line of work.” Bass had a hoarse voice, and sometimes Miles felt that when his best friend said things his voice lent him more pull.

Jeremy placed a hand on the rail and gingerly took each step as he studied his mentors, looking at Bass and sparing glances at Miles. Miles could tell Jeremy was evaluating them both. Miles held himself tall and strong, as always, for he was trained to do so, and he wondered if Jeremy felt threatened or, rather, motivated.

“What kind of work?”

Bass’ smile grew wider, and the excitement Miles felt earlier now rang through Bass’ words like his voice in the stairwell. “Someone’s gotta capture the beasts, for the scientists and those who fund the projects.”

Miles clarified, “Catch and release, sort of.”

“Well, sometimes we have to put one down,” said Bass. “I won’t hide that fact.”

“A grittier detail,” agreed Miles. Rather than going through the exit door at the base of the well, Miles let Bass lead them to the other exposed wall. Bass placed his hand on a brick and waited.

Jeremy responded, “What, like glorified dog catchers?”

Both Bass and Miles sighed, similar feelings being expressed in two completely different sounds: Bass’ was short and huffy, while Miles’ was long and drawn out, but both sighs spoke of historical exposure to similar brandings.

Two bricks wide and eight bricks high, part of the wall lurched forth, rolling slowly forward, the faintest sound of stone-on-stone slightly reverberating through the well as the stones came forward and then rolled to the side, allowing for narrow passage down the stairs of a dark corridor.

While Jeremy gaped at the winding stone stairs, Miles took a white slip of paper from his pants pocket and held it out for Jeremy to take, letting the zeroes defend his job for him. “Starting salary.”

“Oh-kay, so more like philanthropists looking out for the good of Western Civilization? Science? America? All that good stuff?”

The three descended the stairs. The cramped stairwell was dim, but Miles could walk with ease. Only when he heard Jeremy's hands feeling for the handrail did Miles slow his steps. They wound only for another level before the stairs deadended and spat them into the much better lit Green Room, though for a room named after one color it had an awful lot of gray. Its walls were of sleek steel, the floor was of stone the shade of ash, and in fact the only green in the room was found in the branches of a small, plastic palm tree in the corner next to the elevator.

“That’s a joke; you’ll get it later,” smirked Miles, his excitement reaching its peak, as they were about to welcome Jeremy into the family and begin his Reprogramming.

“Well, I’m full of good humor,” added Jeremy, who seemed jacked up on adrenaline himself, though, unlike Miles’, Jeremy’s was caused by a lack of knowledge.

Again, Bass placed his hand on a seemingly unspecific spot on the wall, and this time the elevator doors opened, and a robotic voice announced their destination, the tenth floor.

“It knows by his handprint where we are headed,” said Miles, hoping that the more answers Jeremy was given, the more comfortable he would grow.

On the back wall of the elevator stood an oversized, detailed carving of the company seal, which Miles always admired when he used the elevator. In it, an eagle was in the process of stretching out its wings to fly, yet the bird was transposed with an atomic symbol. It looked as if the electrons orbiting the atom's center were hugging the animal. The image sat mounted atop a long string of letters which read, INTELLIGENCE NETWORK CANVASSING OBSCURE GENERA.

“‘Canvassing’? That sounds more... theoretical... than the work I felt you were describing,” remarked Jeremy, his sight drawn to the work as well.

Bass disregarded the comment and brushed the shoulders of Jeremy’s jacket smooth, for dramatic flair, Miles figured. Generally speaking, Bass was a crude man, unpolished and at times brutish, powerfully well-spoken and to-the-point, but on occasion Sebastian Monroe did things with style, for which Miles had an eye.

“Jeremy,” goaded Bass, placing his hands down on Jeremy’s shoulders and squeezing roughly in succession several times as the elevator doors parted to the tenth floor. “Welcome to the Mothership!”

“Too much,” lightly reprimanded Miles, particularly sensitive to overwhelming Jeremy with the wrong impressions.

Now Miles felt the assignment had officially begun and started carrying himself with an edge, not out of environmental influence but of habit. He spoke seriously, firmly, and with dedication.

“Jeremy, we help people here. The kind of research that gets done? We’re looking for ways to counter disabilities, cure cancer, vaccinate diseases. These animals carry scientific secrets waiting to be uncovered, explained, and then used. Trust me, you’re doing good here.”

Then, in the brief pause before Bass began speaking, Miles saw it, what he was waiting for, the look in the eyes that told him what he needed to know. Jeremy believed him. Jeremy believed in their Cause. Shared their goal. Finally, the recruit could be transformed into a trusted member of the Family.

“Please, Miles, enough. He’s hooked—aren’t you?”


	4. Baker's Dozen Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte and Miles prep for battle.

The way Miles parked the old, red truck on his driveway was much less graceful than at the restaurant. The tires screeched loudly as Miles began to both brake and turn. The hunk of metal pounded over the threshold between the street and driveway, its shocks causing the automobile to jostle and sway.

Miles killed the engine and hopped out, sprinting toward the door. He flung it wide open and stepped into the darkness.

“He isn’t wasting a second.”

Charlotte removed herself from the vehicle at her own brusque pace and entered the house. She flipped on the lightswitch by the door and spotted her bag a few feet from the entryway.

“Ready!” she called, swinging her pack over her right shoulder and popping her hip out.

When Miles failed to respond, Charlotte added, “Need help?”

She heard a muffled noise from upstairs that sounded somewhat like assent, so she headed in its direction until she found herself in Miles’ bedroom.

She let herself briefly take in the room, gathering any clues that might tell her something about the man before her, the man she decided to trust—anything that might confirm she had made the right decision. But as far as bedrooms go, his was very plain, devoid of any personal items. His dresser top displayed no objects at all, not even a tacky vase or an over-read book. The room seemed only used for sleeping, but even so, the bed was perfectly made up. In a way, she felt she was in a soldiers' barracks. There was only a five-inch-tall picture of Miles standing with his arm around a red-headed teen in a graduation gown, whom Charlotte presumed to be his daughter, on the nightstand in the farthest corner. 

Miles himself was digging junk out of the corner of his closet, throwing clothes and half-filled banker's boxes haphazardly behind him, until he could pull out a heavy, metal trunk.

Charlotte audibly exhaled. On the trunk, there was an emblem of an eagle and an atom sitting atop those five letters she had come to despise.

“From your old job?” asked Charlotte, unable to keep the sharpness out of her question.

Miles’ movements finally paused, though only for a split second, and then he went to the punch numbers on a keypad at the front of the trunk.

As he pulled out two black bags, one a duffle and one a backpack, he offered her as personal an anecdote as she supposed he supplied.

“I used to think INCOG was this great cause. That we were making the world better. I didn’t know then what I know now.”

He slammed the case shut before he said one more thing, his fingers tracing over the logo that unsettled Charlotte so much.

“I used to think this represented science’s ability to help along life. Now, I see it as our egos' hold over us all. I see the atom caging it in, strangling the damn bird. Really, we are all just selfish and stupid.”

Charlotte did not quite know how to respond. Was she running headfirst into the fire of a powerful organization to rescue Danny because it seemed to be the right thing to do, or because she just wanted her brother back? Remembering that Miles seemed to prefer silence, she decided to say nothing at all. Instead she reached down and grabbed the duffle bag, which was heavier than it looked and made clanky noises.

“That’s the weapons bag,” noted Miles. “Important.”

Charlotte nodded and assumed the second bag was Miles’ personal pack.

Miles took a step toward her so that he could open the bag. He reached in and grabbed a gun. It was reminiscent of the light rifles Charlotte had been exposed to a week ago, but it looked much older, and was blocky rather than rounded. Then he proceeded toward a window at the foot of the bed, which Charlotte realized looked out over the front lawn and driveway.

Miles then removed a necklace he had been wearing around his neck, a silvery beaded chain with a tiny pendant, which reminded Charlotte of a rosemary. He stretched out his arm toward her, the chain dangling from his fist.

“Wear it.”

Charlotte raised a questioning eyebrow, but Miles was not looking at her, so she shrugged and took it, putting it around her neck.

Then Miles surprised her by pulling out of his pack a much larger pendant, shaped like a teardrop, with a power symbol in the middle. He put that around his neck in place of his other, tucking it underneath his shirt. Charlotte mirrored him, concealing her necklace as well.

Then Charlotte took a step back, half turned away, as if doing so hid her thoughts from him. She had seen a pendant like that. Her father had kept one. She had not told Miles, but it was taken along with Danny the night of the attack. Was it yet another connection to a daunting past that grew murkier as more answers surfaced?

The pendant deepened in Charlotte the curiosity and mystery which had been growing for the last few weeks, since she and Danny had unintentionally uncovered a false bottom in a drawer of her father's desk. Changing her mind on the silence option, she took the opportunity to inquire about her dad’s involvement in INCOG.

“My dad always said he was a scientist,” said Charlotte, hanging her sentence in the air like a prompt.

In response, Miles nodded.

“So did my dad work in research there?”

Miles briefly turned toward her and nodded again, as if that would suffice, but Charlotte’s wide eyes demanded more understanding.

“The agency had… a placement test, of sorts, that told them where your talents aligned,” explained Miles while his eyes scanned his street through the window blinds, “so Ben went all Einstein on it, and got shoveled onto the science track.”

“And what did you show a knack for?” asked Charlotte.

Miles did not answer.

But Charlotte already knew it—by the sure way he gripped his gun, and the readiness in his stance, and the suspicious manner in which his eyes searched the dark, and how his pulse raced in eager anticipation for something to come.

Violence.

Miles was ready for it, and he welcomed it.

Charlotte didn’t know quite what to think about that—if it was a good or bad thing—though she did know it scared one part of her and thrilled another.

She didn’t know what to think about that, either.

She pushed the thoughts aside.

“So, are we going to stand around for the other seven minutes playing Peeping Tom, or can we go ahead and get out of here?”

“We need to play this just right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been nearly twenty years, Charlotte. Security parameters have changed since I left, believe me. I may know locations, but I don’t have a way in, or out for that matter. We’re going to need to update our intel.”

It suddenly dawned on her that Miles was waiting for a faceoff, after which they would be ready to make a quick getaway— optimistically. This realization troubled Charlotte.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“We’re gonna extract Jeremy. Separate him from his team somehow and take him with us.”

“Somehow? Miles, that sounds like a dangerous and even stupid plan.”

Miles only smiled at her, and for some unknown reason, Charlotte smiled back, even though as she did her stomach sunk. Then, he turned and headed down the stairs, and Charlotte followed without needing any prompting.

“We’ll use the truck for now, until after we grab him. Then we’ll boost something faster.”

Charlotte cocked her head. “I’m sorry? Are you saying we’ll be stealing a car?”

Miles gave her a look.

“Awesome! I mean, if that's what's best...”

Miles shook his head as they walked through the front door.

“And I’m going to have to teach you how to use one of these things, you know.”

He waved the rifle back and forth a few times.

"I know how to use a gun."

“These work a little differently, and they're what our enemy uses, so you need to understand these things. They are tricky to fire. No, put the bags up front, with us,” he added, stopping Charlotte from throwing the duffle bag into the truck bed.

Miles opened his door and stuffed as much of his bag that could fit under his seat.

As Charlotte turned to move around the truck toward her own door, she caught a strange aroma she had not experienced before, sour and sweet, like a flower that had only just begun to rot. She stopped her movements, still a few feet from Miles. Her eyes roamed the property for its source, and found three figures emerging from the tree line, one of which Charlotte recognized from the picture in Miles' bedroom.

That figure spoke.

“Er—Dad?”

Miles turned to see the teen behind the red truck.

Now much closer, the girl’s smell assaulted Charlotte’s nose, but it was what Charlotte heard that generated her theory, or rather what she did not hear.

“Heartbeat.”

If Miles heard Charlotte’s murmur, he didn’t comment. But the cogs in Charlotte’s head were already turning, churning the meager pieces of information Miles had spared about his daughter. To Charlotte, it seemed the girl had been placing distance between her and her father. She did not look any older than in her graduation photo, but her complexion had changed into a stony white, and her eyes were a bright brown, even gold. Charlotte began to understand some of Miles’ pain, and it struck her as ironic—the predicament in which Miles was placed: having hunted down beings like his daughter for so long, just for it to turn out his daughter would one day become one.

Miles had a lot in common with Charlotte's own dad.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“Bella, Jacob. Edward. Not a good time for me. Let’s talk later.”

“You must be Charlotte,” nodded Bella politely but stiffly, and slightly awkward. “Jacob told us about what happened to your brother. We were hoping we could help.”

Again Miles tried to herd them away as to not waste time, but Charlotte cut him off before he could. After all, she was eager to follow any lead to her brother, and she wasn't quite convinced of Miles' plan to kidnap Jeremy, at least not with just the two of them. “How?”

The one she knew had to be Edward answered. He spoke slowly and with an unusual cadence. “My father, Carlisle; he is aware of the group you mentioned.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Aware how?”

“He had an unfortunate run-in with them a decade ago on a business trip to Seattle.”

“Carlisle's a doctor,” supplied Miles to Charlotte, and she thought she could see him berating himself for exposing his daughter to the growing danger.

“And a vampire?” asked Charlotte.

The three visitors visibly recoiled at the word, but Miles nodded once.

“How can a vampire be a doctor? Isn’t that like an alcoholic being a bartender?”

“Missing the point,” said Miles, gritting his teeth in annoyance. “INCOG probably held an interest in his work.”

“Carlisle shows much restraint,” said Edward, looking curiously at Miles. “An alcoholic will always be one but does not necessarily drink.”

Miles released an exasperated sigh, but his eyes began to evaluate all of them, as if he was considering and revising something. Then he checked his wristwatch.

“Charlotte, this is my daughter, Bella, and her husband, Edward.”

Miles held up four fingers to Charlotte, mouthing the word 'minutes'.

“Nice to meet you,” said Charlotte pleasantly, offering her hand.

Edward shook it, followed by Bella.

“I’ve never met a real, live vampire before,” said Charlotte, slightly flustered, to which Miles dismissively rolled his eyes as he took Charlotte’s pack off her shoulder and threw it to the other side of the truck cab, on the floor in front of her seat.

Bella seemed bewildered. “Dad, you… _know_? Jacob, I thought you didn’t tell—”

“He didn’t,” interrupted Miles. “I… figured it out. After Jacob showed me his whole _shifting thing_ last year, I looked back at unsolved cases, animal attacks. Then I realized other myths might be true. I put together pieces. How the Quileute fought with the Cullens. How cold Carlisle’s skin was. How you wouldn’t let me touch you after you, I guess, became one, too.”

Miles spoke hurriedly and sloppily, throwing together facts in slightly disjointed fashion. Charlotte realized after a few moments that he was subtly lying and was surprised at how convincing it seemed. He acted like the conversation itself caught him off guard, and he did not force the facts he provided.

Charlotte realized his daughter must have no clue about his past and, feeling pity, changed the direction of the conversation by turning to Miles and saying, “Carlisle might be our source of info instead.”

Miles rolled his eyes at her idea, but he reached out to touch her elbow in thanks. “Carlisle won’t know what we need to know.”

“A way in.”

“No, a way out. Any of you could be the way in.”

Charlotte’s head dipped back at the casual way Miles provided such caustic words.

“You wanna bait them with us?”

“Hello, we’re going to capture the team’s leader.”

“You mean we’re still going to try that?”

“Yes, and we've got two minutes until they're likely to arrive” he said, looking from Bella to Edward to Jacob. “And now we have plenty of muscle to make this plan less dangerous and even… smart? Don’t forget that right now he thinks there’s only two of us together, after all. Surprise is as good a tactic as anything else.”

“The team’s leader?” asked Jacob, who spoke for the first time since arriving. “What team?”

Charlotte looked at her fellow shifter and replied, “After dinner, we had an ‘unfortunate run-in’ with the team that took Danny.”

“They’re here? In Forks?” asked Jacob, panic edging into his voice.

Charlotte gave herself one second to show him a compassionate look, knowing he must be worried for the safety of his pack. “And they’ll be here any minute now. As many as thirteen of them.”

She looked to Miles to verify the facts, and he nodded, his eyes sweeping from one end of the street to the other.

Jacob’s expression hardened. “What’s the plan?” He nodded to Bella’s father. “You mentioned capturing the leader.”

Miles smirked. “I’ve always liked you, Jacob.”

 

Miles did not have time to explain the attack, so he merely told the three visitors where to lie in wait and what he expected from each of them. Afterward, they took their varied positions, all of which were out of sight, while Miles and Charlotte hung around the truck. They were to wait for a sign from INCOG, and then make it look like they were fleeing.

Charlotte was leaning against the driver’s side, her arms crossed over her chest. Her head was not really in the oncoming attack. She felt a mix of emotions, including adrenaline, but one particular thought kept nagging at her, that Miles had been lying to his daughter her whole life, just like Ben had to her.

She could not ask her own dad, so she decided to hear what Miles’ motive had been.

“You lied to your daughter about everything.”

Miles’ head popped up from inside the driver’s door. He had been digging through the duffle bag, but Charlotte did not know for what until he handed her a nine millimeter pistol.

“Now? Not the time, or place, for any discussion.”

“Well, when the hell is? Because my dad certainly didn’t make time for it. And the last time a gun was involved, he was shot dead before he could tell me anything.”

Miles stood up straight and got into her face, which gave Charlotte the impression he felt defensive. “Stop and think about how the entire life I have built up in the last nineteen years is about to start falling apart.”

As an afterthought he added, “I’m not dying tonight. Neither are you.”

She did not comment after that, despite the knot growing in her stomach, but only because she heard two SUV engines roaring, each one sounding as if they were approaching from a different end of the street. She remembered what Miles said in his bedroom, and it dawned on her that if the plan was to work, she would need to be fully invested in it and not selfishly looking to nurture her own wounds.

So, rather than thinking about how her dad lied to and left her, or how Miles was doing the same, she thought about how she was going to get Danny back.

She vowed to get Miles’ answers later as she climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door and pulling the truck out of the driveway at the same time. The last thing they wanted was for their getaway car to get double-parked. As she finished backing out, headlights shone in her rearview mirror, causing her to wince and rapidly blink at the stark change in lighting.

She jumped out of the truck, engine running and doors open, as Miles met her in the middle of the street.

“Alright, so you learned about running. Now for the next lesson: Guerilla warfare.”

Charlotte saw plainly Miles was enjoying this—the packing, the planning, the perverse countdown, all just foreplay leading up to his favorite part: battle.

Actually, from the way the adrenaline surged through her veins, making her hair stand on its ends and forcing a nervous laugh through her throat, Charlotte realized her own level of excitement.

At this, she began to take deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, concerned her erratic heartbeat may bring about the Change, a worry her parents had embedded in her long ago.

Then she felt Miles’ hand on her shoulder and his deep voice crawling its way up her spine.

“No. Your body needs you to feel it. Let it fill you up. It’s a survival instinct.”

Her skin burned where he placed his hand, and suddenly her excitement veered in a completely different direction. When Miles removed it, she felt her head clear a little. _What was that?_ She would worry about it later. Probably just the adrenaline anyway.

The SUV that had blinded Charlotte pulled up directly behind the truck, nearly bumper to bumper. Four men exited the passenger’s side, using the Escalade as a barrier between them and their targets, who stood hunched against their truck in the middle of the street.

Charlotte's hearing allowed her to capture the sounds of their feet pattering on the ground and their guns cocking over the sputtering truck engine. She heard a heavy rustle from the treeline on the men’s side of the car. _Jacob_ , she knew, and it sounded like he had already fully shifted. _Good_ , as she had learned first-hand that INCOG’s rifles could prevent the Change from occurring.

A huge, brown wolf emerged from the treeline in a single leap, crossing eight feet of grass and concrete before landing on two of the four men. Both men’s heads hit the concrete with a loud, unpleasant _smack_. The impact knocked one of the two out completely, a small puddle of red forming under his skull as he lay motionless face down. The second operative seemed utterly disoriented as Jacob moved off of him: He could not even remember where he was and, panicked, began to pull himself along the concrete, away from the scene.

Shouting erupted, but Miles held Charlotte firmly in place with a hand on her back, the upper halves of their bodies ducked into the pickup. 

Then, Jacob leapt straight up and over the truck to avoid the shots of the other two men. He landed near Charlotte and Miles, who both pulled out of the truck, standing upright.

Due to Jacob’s surprise attack, the other Escalade had slammed on its brakes. It stopped short of the truck’s front by several feet. There would be just enough room to maneuver around it. Charlie could see the plan taking effect: They would escape the way that vehicle had come.

The new car presented more attackers. One man stepped out of the back seat on the passenger’s side, using his door as a makeshift shield. The other two piled out the driver’s side to keep the vehicle between them and their enemies, just as the other four had previously. Then, Jeremy emerged from the front passenger’s seat, also using the door as his protection. Unlike his hesitant team, Jeremy only took one second to aim. The shot from his light rifle connected with one of Jacob’s hind legs. A whimper escaped, and the giant dog collapsed, slowly changing back into a teenage boy.

Charlotte had momentarily frozen, fixated on watching as a single device could make something so large and powerful revert into something so much weaker and smaller.

In contrast, Miles had already started moving around the rear of the first Escalade, his goal to render useless the last two of the first car. He raised his technologically obsolete rifle and fired twice. No shots wasted. Both men collapsed to the ground, flopping like fish out of water as they tried to pick themselves up.

The sound of Miles' shooting broke Charlotte from her reverie. She realized Jeremy had already aimed his next shot at her. She reacted without thinking, dropping to the ground and rolling under the truck until she came out the other side.

“Fuck!”

She knew that voice to be Miles’, and a panic began creeping up her chest and grabbing hold of her throat. She felt lost, with no idea of what to do other than dodge.

Once she got to her feet, she saw Miles had a busted lip. He had already begun incapacitating the two from the second car, but he had not had time to reload his rifle after his first two shots. Instead, he was using the piece of metal as a melee weapon, swinging up the end and colliding it with a chin. The force was enough to lift the combatant’s feet off the ground, and he landed on his ass with a _thud_. Miles leaned forward and snapped his neck.

Two shots. That is how many they could fire. That meant Jeremy had to reload, too.

Charlotte turned to look over the truck, toward where she last saw him. Gone. But there was Edward, looking disheveled.

Charlotte thought she heard a yell from Edward's side but could not be sure in the chaos. While her eyes swept across the scene in search for Jeremy, she saw his driver in the car, pointing a handgun at Miles.

Miles' concentration was on the last of the six who had gotten out on the side of the treeline. Miles punched him in the gut, causing his enemy to hunch over. Then Miles brought his knee upward into the nose of his foe, sending him staggering backward, his face a bloody mess, his throat choking on more of the warm liquid. Miles stood, victorious, using one hand to shove the bleeding face to the ground. But it seemed Miles was oblivious to the lethal weapon aimed at him from the car.

“No!” screamed Charlotte, raising the gun Miles had given her with both hands, one around the grip and one around the base. She knew what was going to happen before she pulled the trigger, but still the sound of the glass shattering and the blood spurting forth surprised her. She flinched. The man slumped, dead.

Miles whipped around, seeing the driver’s faceless form with his gun still poised in Miles' direction, and looked back to Charlotte. Shock was etched in his features, accompanied by a foreign sense of gratitude, perhaps.

Yet Charlotte had no time to dwell. The second driver could not have been sitting five feet from where she stood. She dropped to the ground as the windshield exploded, but it was too late. She could feel the sting in her lower back travel through her body in the way it had the week before. She waited for the terrifying moment where she lost control of her body, but as it traveled up her spine toward her head, it disappeared. She expected to be unable to pick herself up off the ground, but she found that she could. She huffed, puzzled.

She decided to count herself lucky, since there was no time to figure out why the light rifle did not affect her the second time the way it had the first.

The driver seemed equally shocked. His hesitation provided just enough time for her to raise, aim, and shoot. The bullet found its target, and, in a single minute, Charlotte had taken two lives.

By now, she surmised Jeremy surely must have finished reloading, wherever he was.

She did not know yet that he had not gotten the chance. Edward leapt from the roof of the house once Jeremy got off his second shot. Then, Edward grabbed Jeremy by his vest and shoved him to the ground with great strength, the rifle sliding out ten feet. The vampire pulled Jeremy off the ground far enough to give him one good clock to the jaw. Afterward, he slammed the rear passenger door back against the other man, who cried out in agony as the metal door cut deeply into his shins. Edward twisted the gun easily from the arm which stuck out of the frame and tried to fire through the window at the man. When the rifle did not work for him, he pulled open the door and used the weapon's butt to knock his opponent unconscious.

Caught off guard by the presence of both shifters and vampires, Baker’s team had been underprepared and overwhelmed.

By the time Charlotte rounded back to the other side of the cars, toward the house, she saw Bella collect their prize, tossing him into the truck bed and hopping in next to him, a litany of swear words and threats escaping Jeremy, despite a rather dazed look.

Miles sauntered around the front of the truck collecting the newer weapons until he came to Jacob’s squirming form.

“Nothing’s moving like it should,” ground out Jacob through his teeth.

Miles smirked, dumped the gear in the truck bed, and started to lift Jacob off the ground to get him into the truck. Edward moved closer to help. Neither were very gentle, practically dumping Jacob into the truck bed as if he had been the weapons Miles had collected. Edward climbed in next to Bella in the back with Jeremy and Jacob.

“This is funny to you, huh?” accused Jacob.

“Most definitely,” replied Miles, looking down into the truck bed as if he needed another look.

“I thought you liked me.”

"I do. Especially now.”

Charlotte climbed into the pickup, unable to appreciate any humor, while Miles busied himself, slashing the tires of the Escalades.

“A present for when they wake up,” he said to her as he slid into the driver's seat.

“The ones who still can wake up,” commented Charlotte. She could not tell if her hands were shaking because of the rumbling truck.

He looked at her closely for a few seconds, studying her features, and said, “Mm.”

They drove in silence the entire ride, except for when Charlotte asked to where they were headed, to which Miles replied, looking through the rearview, “The In-Laws’.”


	5. The Cat's in the Cradle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte reflects and adapts. A glimpse into Miles' past provides little context.

Charlotte sat in a bar stool in the Cullens’ kitchen, her shoulders hunched, her usual pair of bright eyes replaced with a clouded, harsher kind that spoke of a Charlotte she had not yet come to know. She had done what was necessary to get Danny back, she felt, and had even saved Miles unhesitatingly. Those were good things.

 

Weren’t they?

 

But the cold, dense feeling of shittiness in her stomach kept Charlotte from being able to explain away killing two men nearly reflexively—(or worse, instinctively?)—and wasn’t that the rub? How quickly, how easily, she could wipe someone off the face of the Earth! Did that put her on the same moral level as INCOG? What kept INCOG from doing the same to Danny? Surely, it would be even easier for them than it had been for her, considering they have been at it much longer.

 

Charlotte agonized inside, antagonizing herself and ruminating about how she could have done things differently. _Better._ All the while, she held her hands in her lap and stared intensely at the cold coffee in front of her. A cartoon sun decorated the sky blue mug, sporting sunglasses and a beaming smile, inviting a tattered mattress to “Get up on the bright side!” in bold, red letters.

 

A presence set in, and after a few seconds Charlotte realized someone else was in the room and was talking to her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Edward’s sister, Alice, with her head tilted and a questioning look.

 

“I asked if you liked the coffee. It’s kind of not something we make.”

 

“Oh,” Charlotte peeped, jerking her head back to the mug before giving Alice her attention again. “Actually, I’m not thirsty yet.”

 

A heavy silence hung before Alice began knocking her knuckles irregularly along the door frame against which she leaned. “Are you waiting to be?—Thirsty.”

 

“I guess so, when I calm down more.”

 

Charlotte could feel Alice burning holes as she stared at Charlotte’s hands clasped in her lap, her knuckles nearly white. Charlotte consciously unwrapped her fingers and reached a hand out for the mug on the kitchen island, pulling it back into her lap as she crossed her legs and swiveled the stool to face the other girl.

 

A small smile found its way out the corner of Charlotte’s mouth, and Alice nodded gently. Then, the girls both heard footsteps, and Alice leaned her head backward to look down the hall behind her.

 

“Oh, hey, Charlie! I hear you got into a scrape tonight! I see he busted your lip. What gift did _you_ give?”

 

The man Charlotte thought of as Miles reached the doorway in time for Charlotte to see him smirk.

 

 _The gift of death_ , Charlotte thought darkly, and, indeed, by the hollow eyes and tight lips on Miles’ face, it seemed that was what Miles wanted to say.

 

Alice must have taken it to mean ‘Give us a minute,’ since she abruptly dismissed herself from the room.

 

Charlotte wished Alice had stayed even before Alice left completely but said nothing to call her back. Now that Miles and Charlotte were alone, he would want to talk to her to gauge how she was handling herself. You would think he could appreciate not wanting to talk.

 

“It gets easier.”

 

Charlotte’s face twisted, not knowing if what he said was good news or bad, and Miles did not seem sure either.

 

“What’s done is done. It’s in the past,” he tried again.

 

Miles squirmed slightly and took a step forward to try to cover up his discomfort.

 

“You just need time.”

 

“Do you mind? If I wanted a platitude, I’d buy a mug.” She lifted her mug, not unlike to toast the situation.

 

“Ah, well, ‘You’re negativity is your only hurdle.’”

 

Miles smirked. Charlotte smiled humorlessly.

 

Charlotte looked down at her mug and whispers, “Sorry, just frustrated, because… It’s just that my hands won’t stop shaking.”

 

Miles took another step and leaned in to hear her better. He followed her eyes to her hands and registered what she had said.

 

Charlotte looked back up at him. She was relieved not to find any pity on his face, but somehow what she did find was worse—a painful understanding—and she realized all at once that Miles felt exactly like this at one time and that he did not have… shaky hands anymore.

 

She flinched when his hands first started moving from his sides, but as they finally slid over her own she realized how badly she had been waiting for their cool, gentle support.

 

For contact. The sweet, loving, healing touch of another human being, so to speak.

 

It had been so long since she had seen any family, and Miles felt like her only salvageable connection to them.

 

She looked back down at her hands in his. It was nice at first, but after a few seconds, she had to pull hers away, because a fleeting question made the sight unbearable—how many lives did these four hands wiped away tonight?—but she made a show of it, like she needed to set the mug down on the counter.

 

“Really, though,” started Miles. “I would love to tell you that those were bad men doing bad things to good people. But that’s not how things are.”

 

He did not look overly confident or comfortable, did not seem as if he knew what he wanted to say or how to say it, but she could hear the belief in his words all the same. He shrugged his shoulders, and his head scanned the room as he continued.

 

“They were soldiers, who believed in their objective, who came from families and grew up and played sports. Who woke up at five in the morning, every morning, believing they were making the world a safer, better place. They—those men you shot, those men I killed… They’re a casualty of war. And war is what happens when you love something so much you would do anything for it. A nation, a cause, a person. Doesn’t matter which.”

 

The heavy air sucked the breath out of both of them. Perhaps the lack of oxygen was good for Charlotte, because she had stopped shaking. And even if Charlotte had not seen Miles gulp, she heard the smacking of his tongue and the swash of saliva loud and clear.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, though,” he added, as if shards of glass were stuck in his vocal cords. “You didn’t do to them anything they haven’t done to some poor wolf girl, tens of them even, who lay in some mass unmarked grave, far away from anyone who could have loved them.”

 

Charlotte rubbed the heel of her hand against where her cheek and bottom eyelid connected and sniffed once.

 

“I’m sorry,” which she only heard him say because she has super hearing.

 

She stared at his lips for a few seconds. Then, Charlotte requested, “Can you be honest with me? About… everything you remember? Saving Danny and getting out of INCOG and all that stuff?”

 

Miles nodded.

 

Charlotte hesitated. “Are you ready for war?”

 

A deeper question in disguise. She wasn’t sure if Miles understood it until—

 

Miles nodded and, as they locked eyes, cleared his throat. “Why do you think I’m here now? The coffee?”

 

“I’m not sure we’ll get to my brother in time. But this INCOG… they have to be stopped, even if we don’t,” she swallowed, “stop ‘em fast enough.”

 

Charlotte stood, having to push the stool back into the counter slightly because of how close Miles had moved. Then she took a half step forward, gingerly threading her arms through his, wrapping them around his body. With her head so close to his chest, she could hear his heart thumping without her powers, and the rhythm soothed her. She could also smell metal, the blood, and although she wanted to recoil, the hug was not for her: It was for him. Maybe a hug from a wolf girl could help move him a little closer to forgiving himself. She gently squeezed before withdrawing.

 

“Thank you,” she said.

 

“No problem,” he mumbled, looking at his feet and then squinting over her shoulder, like he heard something in the corner, or maybe the wallpaper suddenly interested him.

 

Then, he said, “Oh, the doc has Jeremy awake in the other room, which is what I came here to say. I mean, that was the pretense I was planning on using if I had to.”

 

x

 

By ‘doc’ Miles had meant Dr. Carlisle Cullen, Edward’s father and the town physician (and - by the way - _vampire_ ). He worked at the hospital near the station and, apparently, had come across INCOG nearly twenty years before. He stood in front of the seating area and told his story to the ones in the room.

 

When Charlotte and Miles entered, they stood near the doorway at the back of the room. Miles leaned his tall frame against the wall, resting his head against it and propping up his foot. Bella and Edward sat next to each other on a couch with their backs to Charlotte. On the far side of the couch sat Jeremy Baker, bound to an armchair, while Jacob sat stiffly on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes glued to the prisoner. Alice had found her way into the room from the kitchen and was stood behind the couch.

 

“I was in Chicago when I came across a group of them, led by _him_ actually,” said Dr. Cullen, tilting his head toward the bound Baker. The doctor had a soft, silky voice, evidence of decades (centuries?) of a gentle spirit, accented by his bright eyes. Rather than frown at the memory, his lips formed a practiced line across his face.

 

Baker smirked at the doctor, his eyes shining through the hair that hung in clumps across his forehead from dried sweat and blood. “Pleasure seeing you again.”

 

“Yes,” the doctor seemed to agree but sighed. “I see you haven’t changed much. I thought you had really learned to see me for what I’ve done, not what I am.”

 

Baker scoffed. “Because I let you go? I had a call to make and results to get. It was purely strategic. Sorry, honey, I don’t like you.”

 

“And becoming tied to my chair—was that part of your strategy?”

 

“A small obstacle to overcome. I’ll adjust.”

 

“Jeremy.”

 

Dr. Cullen looked at Baker with knowing eyes, almost fatherly, warm and tender. Charlotte shifted her weight from one foot to another. While he reminded Charlotte of Ben a little, the doctor seemed kinder, softer. Ben had a tendency to act better than you, though she didn’t think he meant to, since he didn’t seem to notice it.

 

Perplexed by the expression, Baker only blinked several times, questioning why the man would look at him on such a personal level. And so… gratefully.

 

Charlotte wondered if the doctor knew something about Baker that Baker didn’t know himself, but nothing in Carlisle Cullen’s expression came across as a taunt, an “I know something you don’t know.”

 

But he did seem to know something nonetheless, and Charlotte found herself surrounded by secrets yet again and _hating it_.

 

Speaking of, Miles, who had promised to be forward with his wealth of experiences, seemed to be clamming up next to her the longer the painful silence rung on.

 

She felt like she was dreaming up a fucking game of Clue. It might have been comical...if she weren’t thinking about her brother tied in some mad scientist’s chair, being poked and prodded and shot up with who-knows-what. Instead, it was enraging, and a hot anger began bubbling from her gut up her throat like bile. She felt like she was being led on and on _and on_. She just wanted to cut through all the pretense and get to the who-what-where-when-why-how of it all.

 

Was that too much to ask?

 

Baker’s confusion also began transforming, and his chest heaved more and more. Then he whipped his head toward Miles, a vein bulging from his forehead. “Did you have something to do with this?”

 

Miles shifted beside Charlotte, and everyone turned to look to him. Miles looked from Baker to his daughter and back again. He turned his head sideways, his eyes met Charlotte’s, and his shoulders grew slack.

 

“Yes.”

 

Baker looked back and forth from Miles to Charlotte several times before letting out a snarl. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

 

“What?” demanded Charlotte.

 

Baker nodded to Charlotte and commented, “I bet all your toys come broken, huh, girl?”

 

While Miles raised an eyebrow, Charlotte blushed furiously and articulated, “It’s Charlotte.”

 

“Whatever,” dismissed Baker, shifting his attention back to Miles. “What the fuck did you do to my head?”

 

X

 

It had been two years since Miles first took Jeremy Below Ground. Jeremy had developed well and learned a lot, but Miles had noticed his hesitation lately, especially whenever Jeremy got word to go Ashore for another assignment.

 

Miles understood. Things had changed a lot over the last few years, not just for Jeremy, but for INCOG, and more and more Shadows were being told to put Rats down.

 

The former head of Research and Development, Rachel Macer, had said it best not long before she died: “We learn more from the autopsy than the Tag.”

 

The Tag’s job was to monitor the Rat’s vitals and brain waves as they responded to the Rat’s environment, for those re-released. INCOG had learned some about culture and decision-making, but there had not been many new learnings from the Tag in recent years. Certainly not enough to prove INCOG’s worth to those who determined funding. And the organization began weighing the pros and cons of sending these beasts back into the wild.

 

Their way of gathering information had reached a plateau, and - interesting correlation - not long thereafter the number of executions had risen exponentially.

 

Not that Miles could do that math accurately, he just knew based on his instinct, based on how little vigor was left in his own body to carry on the Cause. And that was sufficient.

 

It all seemed so fucked up to him now, and he felt largely responsible. Ever since Miles helped Bass get what he wanted, Miles had felt sick.

 

Jeremy had made things worse. The latest Rat he had captured was different from any vampire they had bagged before. His eyes were gold, not red. His reactions were gentle, not violent. And he did not have an addict’s response when exposed to human blood; instead, he remained in control, and even disinterested.

 

Miles had not had direct contact with the Rat who insisted to be called Carlisle, but Miles watched the video feed closely from the control room and had many long conversations about Carlisle with one of the newer scientists, the eager Aaron Pittman.

 

Miles liked talking to Aaron because Aaron was not a typical INCOG scientist, he was more of a specialist who maintained all the tech. Aaron did not speak of the Rats as if they were, well, Rats, but rather as if they were beings. Not human, no, Aaron would have readily admitted as much, yet Aaron would also point out that these were intelligent life forms with the ability to think, feel, make decisions, regret decisions… just like a human does.

 

Conversations like these spun dangerous thoughts like spider’s webbing, and Miles felt trapped, just another cog in a monster of his own creation.

 

And now he had to know. If there was even a possibility he could have this all wrong, he absolutely had to know.

 

The lights in the room came on.

 

“Miles, dear, the darkness of the room with that brooding ‘tude of yours? Too heavy! What have I told you about your look? You have got to strike a balance,” breezes Jeremy, slicing through the depressed tension in the control room. “Now, what’s got you so moody?”

 

Jeremy could already see Rat 217’s Cage Cam on the largest screen.

 

“Ah, the vegetarian vamp. Guess every animal group in the kingdom has an oddball?”

 

“We gave him squirrel’s blood yesterday on his own request.”

 

Jeremy scoffed. “ _ I _ don’t even stoop so low as to eat  _ squirrel _ .”

 

“No,” conceded Miles. “Well, perhaps you should try a bite of the next witch we fry.”

 

Jeremy sighed. “Come on, buddy. Pick your chin up. ‘This too shall pass.’ Seriously, downtrodden's not great on you.”

 

“You were there, right?” Jeremy became silent, biting back any quip as a cue for Miles to continue. “There’s something different about him,  _ right _ ?” Jeremy looked at the big screen before returning his gaze to Miles. “If there is a way to… to domesticate, to civilize, but we are killing every last one...”

 

Miles let his words sink in for a minute.

 

“He’s Tagged, you know.”

 

“Miles—”

 

“He’s  _ Tagged,  _ and he’s harmless.”

 

“He isn’t harmless. He’s a  _ vampire _ . What, you think because he hasn’t fed on a human in front of us he has morals?”

 

“Morals? I was aiming at something more like standards.”

 

“Okay, you need a break from  _ The Real Word: Sunnydale _ .” Jeremy hits a button on the SwitchView, and now Cage Cam for Rat 031 assumes the big screen, the Cage Cam for 217 disappearing to the back of rotation.

 

“You met that Rat, Carlisle. You brought him in.” Miles paused a beat. “Do you get off executing Rats like those sick fucks in Disposal? We’re not a lab anymore, we’re a slaughterhouse, and that Rat is on the chopping block. And this could be a Tag we  _ learn from _ . Out there. Where he lives. Where shit we do matters.”

 

And Jeremy deflated, because this conversation was the most animated one he has shared with Miles in two months, and Miles has this innate ability to imbue passion.

 

Miles knew he had Jeremy baited. So Miles reeled him in. “We make it look like an escape, Aaron gives us the data feed, and we report back the results. These aren’t actions that have been outside our parameters before. Trust me.”

 

And Jeremy did trust Miles.

  
And afterward—once Jeremy had jeopardized his position, freed Rat 217 (“Doctor Cullen, do find you don’t disappoint,” nodded Jeremy in farewell), and returned to the control room to follow up on Miles' tap of the feed—Miles used one of Aaron’s flashy new gadgets to wipe the evening's events from Jeremy’s mind as he knew them.

 

X

 

Charlotte couldn’t believe what she was hearing (memory tampering? Is that even possible?), but at least she knew going into the story who Miles really was. She could not imagine the thoughts rushing through Bella’s mind at a mile a minute, or Edward’s, or even what serene Carlisle Cullen was thinking. And Jacob, who for once did not seem to have any expression at all. If Jacob really does wear his emotions on his sleeve, then perhaps this means he is in some state of shock.

 

Charlotte reached out and paused, her hand in mid-air, before she let her hand fall on Miles’ shoulder in a show of support.

 

But Jeremy Baker looked betrayed from his spot tied up in the armchair. “You—You wiped me? Just like that?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Jer.” Miles licked his lips. “I am. But I need you now, more than ever. INCOG is a rabid dog that needs to be put down. Just look at what it has done to Bass! What it did to Charlotte’s family!”

 

“INCOG? You want to go up against INCOG? You want me to help you go up against them, after you have admitted to begging for my help before and then hiding the truth from me. No, _taking the truth away_ from me.”

 

Charlotte interrupted. “For good reason. It’s INCOG,” she said from her high horse, disgust and anger lacing each word.

 

“Yes, it’s INCOG. Intelligence Network Canvassing Obscure Genera. As in ‘agency’, ‘black ops’, ‘no red tape’… _The United States government_ , sweetheart!"

 

Enraged, she lashed out. "It's _Charlotte_."

 

“Actually, it’s ‘Charlie’, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve only been doing recon for two months, but…” Charlotte raised her chin. “But I’m sure that’d be too confusing, what with _his_ alter ego.”

 

Miles whipped his head around sharply, an unprepared target, and Jeremy grinned over the small victory.

 

“Don’t worry. You, I’ve only been watching for a few hours. Long enough to learn your name, though, Chief Swan—and that you have a daughter, whom I haven’t met but interestingly enough is seventeen years old. Suspicious timeline, Miles, don’t you think, considering when you left?”

 

“Wait,” redoubled Charlotte. “The government?” She looked to Miles.

 

But Miles seemed more concerned than ever with persuading Jeremy, “I know I abandoned you, Jer. And I can never change that, or make up for what I did or how I left things. But I’m here now. So please. Help us get that kid away from INCOG. I know it’s a ridiculous risk, but you know we're capable. That’s why Bass sent _you_ after her.”   


“No,” said Jeremy. Then, more resolute. “No, I have to protect Bass.”

 

Miles squared his shoulders. “Look at what that thing has done to him! Don’t you get it? This is how you protect Bass... Destroy INCOG.”

 

Jeremy looked unsure but beaten.

 

Charlotte figured that meant he was in.

 

X

 

“You left out some details in that retelling, ‘Miles’.”

 

Miles had momentarily sequestered himself to the kitchen (“more coffee”) and though he stared out the window, Carlisle could tell Miles was picturing something else entirely.

 

“Quick version. Nothing any of them need to hear right now.”

 

“And you expect me to keep quiet about it?”

 

MIles swallows, “For right now,” and Carlisle's disappointment is as heavy as the silence that follows, and Miles’ shoulders sag a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't and won't abandon this story. Apologies for the extreme delay.


End file.
